The Second-Oldest Rule
K Hanna Korossy
The latest crisis solved for now, Bobby finally dropped into his desk chair and stared at his journal. Then got up, got a drink, and sat back down and stared at his journal.
He'd seen Dean in that creature's alternate reality.
Not his Dean; Bobby hadn't been positive about that at first but was all kinds of sure now. The Dean he'd seen had more lines in his face, more darkness. Not the total hollowness of when Sam died, so Sam had probably been around there somewhere, too. But older, witness to a lot more crap. And that Dean had been utterly shocked at seeing Bobby. Not like an unexpected crossing of paths on a hunt. More like glimpsing a ghost.
Which meant a couple of things, near as Bobby figured. One: he'd gotten a peek into the future. Not the first time for that. Two: he was dead in that future. Not really a surprise there, either. Three: he was pretty sure they would beat the Apocalypse. Which also wasn't a total shock, not with Sam and Dean Winchester in the fight. But it was still a helluva relief.
Bobby stared at the blank page where he'd started writing about the hunt, about a creature he couldn't even identify and wasn't sure how they'd defeated. Then he flipped to another section, the one where he'd been taking notes about Lucifer and Michael and the war that'd begun. Bobby picked up his pen and started a new paragraph.
Rufus says the oldest rule of hunting is that you can't save everyone. I'm not gonna argue that, but I got a better one: trust your backup. Rufus saved my ass again today. And I've got reason to believe Dean's gonna save his brother this time. And then Sam'll save him right back. The world, too, while they're at it. They just gotta trust each other.
Bobby chewed his pen a moment. He contemplated the words, contemplated how he was going soft in the head, and flipped back to that empty page. Should he mention—?
The phone rang in the kitchen, one of the Fed lines, and Bobby cursed and clambered to his feet to go answer. He'll write more later.
They had time.
00000
He couldn't make sense of things at first.
It would've freaked him out more—vulnerability, lack of information, potentially serious injury—except that he could feel the cage of Sammy's arms around him, holding him together, keeping danger at bay. It gave Dean the minute he needed to catch his breath and figure out what had happened.
The whirlwind of memories started settling into place. The dark house full of ghosts. The bright house, quiet, with Sam. The soul-eater. The kid and her mom. Sitting on the floor, hurting in places that didn't make sense, Sam's big paw on top of his aching head. The quiet, "Everything's fine, man, just breathe," in his ear.
Dean swallowed, head tilting back against Sam's collarbone. "You get it?"
"Soon as I finished the sigil, it blasted out of here. Think we destroyed it." A beat. "It tried to use you to stop me first, though."
"Huh." Eyes still closed, he tested limbs. "That why I feel like I hit a couple of walls?"
"And a chair. And my fist a coupl'a times. Sorry."
That wasn't even worth responding to. "Y'all right?"
"Yup." Sam's hand dropped from his head, but the arm across Dean's chest that was still keeping him from face-planting didn't budge. "You?"
Dean breathed out. "Peachy."
Sam huffed an amused, disbelieving breath.
Dean put together the last few pieces. The soul-eater's victims had dispersed, and he bet the kid and her mom had woken up in the hospital. Sam was fine. Dean was sore but fine. And Bobby…
Bobby. Dean's eyes snapped open. He'd seen Bobby in the soul-eater's nest. A hallucination, like that of dead Sam? Except Bobby had looked okay. Surprised to see him. Maybe…
And the last piece, the one he didn't know he'd been missing, suddenly finished the picture. An old entry in Bobby's journal that Dean had read once, puzzled over, then shrugged off. It swam into his thoughts without bidding, but now it made sense.
"Ready to get up?" Sam asked quietly behind him.
His backup. The reason he was still here, in every sense, and the only one that made Dean believe he—they—could win against Amara.
"Dean?"
Dean shook his head, pushing up. "No, I wanna cuddle on the floor some more." He half-shoved at Sam's arm, half used it for balance as he unsteadily climbed to his feet. A glance around the kitchen: broken furniture, the new sigil gleaming wetly on the wall, a hovering brother with a pinched expression, and Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Let's get out of here." He'd tell Sam later.
They still had time.
The End